


La Prunelle de Mes Yeux is The Apple of My Eye

by magnacarta



Category: Bon Cop Bad Cop (2006)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multilingual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:17:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnacarta/pseuds/magnacarta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when being responsible is not enough for Martin anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Prunelle de Mes Yeux is The Apple of My Eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slowascent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowascent/gifts).



> Many thanks to elanya for a great beta job. Remaining mistakes are my own. Note that this is written in English and Quebecois French.
> 
> ETA: A [podfic](http://amplificathon.dreamwidth.org/1859294.html) of this fic has been made by the lovely Yue. Go listen!

> There's nothing wrong but communication  
>  It's just a problem of our own creation  
>  Sometimes love gets lost in translation

“Written All Over My Face” - Kris Allen

\---

MARTIN

Martin is not a bitter man. Iris did, does and will always get what she wants instantaneously. Martin did, does and will always have to work hard for what he wants.

Iris works her cool aunt magic on Jonathan, and gets him to talk to her about his day, his problems, and even his future.

Iris flirts with his very annoying but unfortunately very attractive so-called _partner_ for the case, and gets to sleep with him the very same night.

Martin, on the other hand, gets the hairy eyeball from his own son whenever he tries to get Jonathan to talk. From David, he gets the infamous _humour québécois_.

“Il a l’air d’un comptable homosexuel.” David had said to Jeff. Ha ha.

So, although, it would actually make sense if Martin were to be a little bit bitter about this, he really isn’t. He loves Iris. He loves Jonathan. He tolerates David’s continued existence.

Hard work has never scared Martin much, and he likes to believe that the reward when it comes will be all the sweeter.

*

When he finally gets to detonate that bomb inside the Tattoo Killer’s pocket, he feels one glorious second of calm before bits of skin, organs, and brain matter start raining down on them. David, of course, ran to his daughter. Gabrielle doesn’t need to be exposed to the evils of the world yet.

But that second is all he gets. The next second, he’s thinking about his next assignment, and how he won’t have David by his side. He’s actually going to miss David Bouchard -his crazy driving, his fancy-nasty swear words, and his blatant disregard for anything English. (One day, Martin’s going to ask David how he managed to learn a language he despises.)

 

DAVID

David n’est pas un grand fan de Toronto en général et de ses habitants en particulier. Leur équipe de hockey est pourri, leur bouffe inmangeable, leur femmes aussi sympathiques que des grizzlis (côtoyer des Ontariens tous les jours depuis leurs naissances ne doit pas aider la chose), même leur bière semble plus fade qu’ailleurs.

David n’est absolument pas surpris de constater que la police de l’Ontario porte apparemment des cols roulés, parle le français avec une bouche en cul de poule et respecte le code de la route. C’est ce à quoi il s’attendait. Martin Ward: anglophone, protocolaire, gris, plate.

Iris, la colorée Iris, ne pouvait mieux tomber. David a sérieusement besoin d’une distraction et une jolie femme comme Iris est tout à fait ce qu’il lui faut. Le regard venimeux de Martin de l’autre côté de la pièce lorsque David fait le paon devant Iris est la cerise sur son sundae. Parfait.

*

David se serait bien passé d’un “partner” provenant du ROC, mais il se doit d’être honnête. il serait probablement mort à l’heure actuelle si ce n’était de Martin. Il se serait probablement tué en essayant de sauver Gabrielle.

David n’est pas un ingrat. Il sait quand il doit faire une concession.

“Merci, Martin. Si tu veux t’essayer avec Suzie... je ne vais pas aller te péter la gueule.”

Heureusement, Martin semble comprendre ce qu’il n’a pas dit.

_Merci, Martin. Tu m’as sauvé la vie._

Ces mots, David ne veut même pas les penser; il n’est pas le héros d’un _chick flick_.

 

MARTIN

Since his wife left him, Martin couldn’t remember wanting anything more than a desk job so he could be home at a reasonable hour, and spend some quality time with Jonathan.

That was still what he wanted when he started on the Tattoo Killer case. That was what he’d had in mind when David was driving through parks, and ignoring anything around him that would make him slow down.

He’s not so sure it’s what he wants anymore. He’s remembering who he used to be. Who he was before he became this version of Martin: the version no one seems to like all that much. He remembers that he used to be cool. He used to be respected. He used to make a difference when he was still in the bomb squad.

Martin has to make a decision though, and it looks like he has to choose between his son and his job. Martin hates himself a little, but he isn’t ready to make it.

A look at his cellphone -it’s the third time in ten minutes- and he dials David. Asking for advice from a psycho is not the most intelligent thing he has ever done, but Martin is sure of one thing: David will understand.

 

DAVID

S’il y a une chose à laquelle David ne s’est pas préparé, c’est bien un coup de fil de Martin. Le rapport sur le Tattoo Killer est tapé et imprimé. Six copies identiques: 3 en direction de la Police de l’Ontario, 3 en direction des archives du SPVM et de la SQ. Maudite bureaucratie; la même partout sur la planète.

Ce n’était plus nécessaire pour eux de garder contact après ça.

“Bouchard.” David est encore à la station. Pas besoin d’afficher qu’il fraternise encore avec son monarchiste.

La diarrhée verbale de son ex-partner dure un bon dix minutes pour finalement se conclure par un rendez-vous le lendemain dans un hole-in-the-wall rue St-Laurent. Si Martin veut lui parler face-à-face à Montréal, ça doit être important.

*

Martin est déjà placé à une table.

David place son manteau sur la chaise de l’autre côté de la table et indique à la serveuse qu’il veut un smoked meat et un café.

“Comment est-ce que tu arrives à faire ça?” Sont les premiers mots hors de la bouche de Martin.

“Commander un smoked meat?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Comment est-ce que tu arrives à vivre avec toi-même quand tu risques ta vie tous les jours? Tu as un enfant qui dépend de toi aussi.”

L’arrivée de la serveuse avec le mets commandé permet à David d’évaluer l’état d’esprit de son compagnon de table. Les yeux troubles, la bouche grimaçante, un tic nerveux dans les tapes rythmiques de son pied gauche sur le carrelage du restaurant; Martin a le moral à plat.

“Tu ne peux pas t’occuper de ton fils si t’es pas là à 100%. Je ne peux pas m’occuper de Gabrielle correctement si j’ai pas eu ma shot d’adrénaline.”

Martin ne dit rien.

“Est-ce que tu lui a demandé à Jonathan ce qu’il voulait? Tu peux bien décider de faire du neuf à cinq. Si ton gars veut pas te parler, il va pas plus te parler parce que t’es plus souvent à la maison.”

“C’est pas bête comme suggestion.”

“C’est moi ça. Bouddha et Confucius dans un beau body.”

 

MARTIN

Martin is a responsible man. He takes David’s advice. Asks his kid. Jonathan tells him to do what makes him happy. Apparently, he radiates unhappiness when he’s stuck with paperwork for too long. In the end it is rather easy to make the move, and go back to the bomb squad. The risk is calculated. He still knows his bombs.

Martin realises he was never meant to be a paper-pusher. He might wear ugly unflattering turtlenecks, but that doesn’t mean he has to live up to the stereotype. Not anymore.

He's always thought that Iris was a bit too impulsive. She’s his baby sister, and he’s not judging her per se, but... Well, maybe at times he had wished he could be as carefree as she was. And it turns out that she’s had the right idea all along.

He makes the choice to be himself again, and everyone is happier.

Martin takes his phone out of his pocket and flips it open. He pushes speed dial 7.

“C’est Martin. Qu’est-ce que tu fais vendredi soir? J’ai deux billets pour le match Maple Leafs-Canadiens.”

It was definitely good to be living again.

FIN

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] La Prunelle de mes yeux is the apple of my eye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077809) by [lunatique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunatique/pseuds/lunatique)




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